I Never Had a Choice
by Zana Zira
Summary: "Let me tell you something: there wasn't much of a choice for me when it came to being a Turk or not. 'Cause when you're starving out in the streets and no one cares whether you live or die, you're willing to do just about anything it takes to save your own skin."


**Author's Note: I have no idea where this plotbunny came from, really. I was just looking at a screenshot of Reno and suddenly had a story pop into my head. *shrugs* Anyway, I really enjoyed writing this one, since it's pretty different from my usual works. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Some woman I didn't know asked me a while back why I wanted to work for the Turks. She asked if I was happy "being a murderer and preying on innocent people for kicks." I could tell right away it was a waste of my time to even listen to her, but I had time to kill and I wanted to see just what kind of stupid "advice" she had to give me. She said there were better opportunities in the world for someone like me, better people to work for and jobs that wouldn't force me to kill people every day just because my boss didn't like 'em. It took me a minute to even be able to make a sound, and then all I could do was laugh. For her it's all that simple, black and white, coming out in perfect pieces in her sweet little cookie-cutter world. You're either good or you're evil, and it's all a choice.

Well let me tell you something – anyone who'll listen – there wasn't much of a choice for me when it came to being a Turk or not. My only options were life or death. You might've been lucky enough to get to pick and choose where you wanted to go in your life, but I didn't have that luxury. 'Cause when you're starving out in the streets and no one gives a damn whether you live or die, you're willing to do just about anything it takes to save your own skin. Morals aren't worth shit out there; the ones who stick to their morals are the ones who wind up buried six feet under before they have time to ask what the hell happened to 'em. No, the ones who survive are the ones like me, the ones who'll sell their body and soul for just a shelter from the cold and a little bit of food every once in a while. There are no gods looking out for you down there in the slums. All you've got to depend on is yourself.

People like that woman think if they look at me long enough they'll find some kinda good soul underneath all this dirt they see on the outside. Like if they just vomit enough kind words in my direction I'll suddenly "see the light" and decide this isn't the life for me. Well I've got news for you – they're wrong. The man you see now is the only one you'll ever see, 'cause it's the only one I am and the only one I'll ever be. Whatever innocent little brat might've believed in hope and justice and good and evil and all that shit years ago isn't here anymore, if he was ever here to start with. Sometimes I don't think I was actually alive until I turned sixteen; those first fifteen years may as well have all just been a dream, for all the good I got out of them.

I don't believe in truth and justice anymore – I haven't got the right to. I'm a tool, and tools don't ask if what they're built to do is right or wrong. When a man with more money than sense pulls you off the streets and tells you he'll give you a job protecting him, that's what you do. If he says jump, you don't ask how high – you just go as high as your legs will take you and then some, 'cause that's what he expects. If you live, great; you get to go on another mission another day, and kill another person or ten. If you die, fine; there are plenty of other desperate slum rats looking for a place to go, and they can learn to use a gun just as easily as you can. You're replaceable, and he makes sure you never forget it. You're only valuable as long as you do your job. You ever wondered why there aren't any retired Turks? Yeah, well, there's a good reason for that. No one's ever lived long enough to need a retirement.

Your comrades are the only ones you can ever trust. They may not all be your best friends in the world, but it doesn't matter; they've all got your back no matter whether they hate your guts most of the time or not. You're all just as desperate as each other, and all of you know that your job is the only purpose you have left to cling to. If you couldn't call yourself a Turk you'd be nothing, you'd have nothing. At best you'd probably be long-dead and feeding the worms, at worst back in whatever Hell-hole you crawled out of in the first place. So all of you stick together because you understand, you know how much you have to lose and how little you really have to hold onto it with.

So at the end of the day, I guess you could call me a heartless bastard if you really wanted to. Not that it would matter what you call me – I've heard it all, and in several languages too. I might humor you and at least _act_ offended, or I might laugh if you get creative enough with the names. I don't care what anyone else thinks, or whether anyone on the outside lives or dies. If my boss is safe, I'm safe, and I get to go on for another day as the killing machine he trained me to be. I'm happy now, and I won't apologize for being happy. I won't apologize for staying alive even if it costs someone else's life. Like I said, I'll do just about anything to save my own skin. My comrades, my friends are just as screwed up as I am, and we all understand just how messed up we are and we're happy being that way. No matter what anyone else says or does, at the end of the day I'll still be one of Shin-Ra's prized guard dogs, and I'll still have a purpose for my life.

At the end of the day, I'll still be Reno, of the Turks.


End file.
